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8 November, 1717
Dearest Edward-
I’m sending this missive with Olivia in the hope that you’ll prepare my ship for my triumphant return.
Olivia has told
cawed
how the devil am I meant to rely on the word of a bloody seagull
informed Mr. Buttons that the Revenge lies only a few days’ sail west, as the sloop we’ve procured moves surprisingly fast for a vessel made of less-superior materials. The crew is quite angry
actually, very very angry
a bit murderous
even Oluwande, which is a dubious accomplishment, dear
somewhat cross with you, I’m afraid. But I’m certain it’s nothing a good chat won’t resolve. And speaking of chats, I suppose…well…you and I should have one, too? Clear the air between us? Water under the bridge hull and all that?
I do long to see you again, and to tell you of my adventures since we parted. You will have to forgive my script, but I don’t have Lucius’s fine calligraphy with which to convey my sentiments.
Yours in perpetuity,
Stede Bonnet
15 November, 1717
E-
Dearest, you must stop firing on us if we’re ever to see each other again. I cannot move the sloop quickly enough to avoid permanent damage, so it really would be best if you…stopped? Firing my canons at me? Just for a bit?
I would like to
I really need to
I’m going to attempt to come aboard and talk this through.
Cheers,
SB
P.S. Could you please stop throwing half-empty bottles of rum at Olivia? I appreciate that you haven’t managed to hit her yet, but I’m afraid she’s growing quite cross with us.
27 November, 1717
Dearest Edward-
To apologize profusely in a letter is, in my humble estimation, perhaps too faint an attempt to convey my deep regrets to you. But it does appear that we’re at a temporary impasse when it comes to in-person apologies. My stab wound is healing quite nicely, by the way. I think you’d be very happy with my attempts at bandaging, this time – much tighter and more compressive now, thanks to your previous lessons in wound care!
I suppose, in my recuperation period, I’ve had more time to ponder what exactly I would like to say to you. And it…remains the same. The same sorrowful regret I expressed to your lovely
soot-covered
perfect
face. Before you ran me through, obviously.
I…did hope that Lucius would be on board the Revenge and able to deliver my letters to you. It would probably behoove us to talk about him, among other things. He is
was
is, after all, our friend.
I would also like to convey my regrets to you again in person. To convey…my feelings, Ed. For you.
After I’ve fully healed, of course. Does that…sound like something you would like?
Yours in perpetuity,
Stede Bonnet
P.S. Olivia sends her regards. She isn’t quite ready to deal with either of us again, apparently. But Mr. Buttons informs me that her cousin Albert is an adept flyer and can dodge projectiles very well. Please give Albert a treat in exchange for this letter, if you’d be so kind.
4 December, 1717
Dearest Edward-
Are you even receiving these letters? It would be a relief delight to know.
Yours in perpetuity,
Stede Bonnet
10 December, 1717
(But fuck if I know, because I’m living in a goddamn wall 90% of the time)
Stede-
Get your cashmere-covered ass back on this fucking ship, right this fucking instant.
Your maniacal lovelorn co-captain threw me overboard and I wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for the fact that you’re an absolute disaster who built secret bloody passages that are accessible from a pulley and lever system outside. The fucking. Ship. (That is an utterly bonkers thing to do to a sea-faring vessel, what the hell were you even thinking? Thank you, thank you, thank you for doing that, you strange little man.)
I’m in some kind of…auxiliary library, I think? And I’m writing to you on scraps of Chaucer, surviving off jars of marmalade and stale cakes that I’m apparently now sharing with an abnormally large seagull. Who crawled through a porthole to give your letter to me?
Which all goes to say that this situation isn’t working for, like, any of us. This room has weirdly great acoustics, and I hear everything. Everything. Jim has started making weapons out of their clothes, I’m pretty sure Izzy Hands is eating his own appendages, and I can’t sleep over the sound of Frenchie’s new eye-tick. Oh, and Blackbeard gets drunk and cries himself to sleep every night. Which…I mean, FUCK THAT GUY. But also, you really need to get back here and sort this out. For real, this time. Maybe don’t get yourself stabbed again? And, you know, communicate better?
Otherwise, I’m going to pretend to be a ghost and read him your stupid letters through the walls. Maybe then he’ll throw himself overboard.
Fucking hurry,
Lucius Spriggs
17 December, 1717
Lucius-
What a joy it is to hear from you! Alive and well! And destroying what appears to be a rather expensive portion of The Wife of Bath! Perhaps you might avoid tearing out The Pardoner’s Tale for our next correspondence? It’s rather a favorite of mine.
But no matter, dear boy – you are alive! The crew is terribly relieved, and Black Pete would like me to convey to you that he intends to “hit that, so fucking hard” whenever we are all reunited. So…congratulations?
Perhaps we should approach this as a two-pronged offensive. Our sloop can’t seem to catch up to the Revenge these days, as I believe Edward is trying to avoid restocking munitions. And thus avoid me? So perhaps you could read Edward the enclosed letter, using the eerie voice of a hidden apparition! Then, while the crew sleeps, you could find a way to provide Albert with the ship’s current coordinates? (Albert’s the seagull, and he’s absolutely lovely. Hails from Liverpool, originally, if you can believe it! Apparently he can locate your ship, but - according to Buttons - Albert's Liverpudlian accent renders longitude and latitude unintelligible...I think? I suppose we're just going to have to take Buttons' word for it. So be sure to include the coordinates in your reply - possibly on Book 20 of The Odssey? I suddenly have reason to find Odysseus' return to Ithaca a bit of a bore.)
Yours in conspiracy,
Stede Bonnet
P.S. Oluwande would also like to convey his deepest regards to Jim, if possible, and express to them that he would like a reunion of the sort Pete keeps describing. But “less graphically kinky, dear God man.”
P.P.S. Wee John misses Frenchie. Please convey that message as well.
P.P.P.S. Roach misses his galley. Please…attempt to convey that message? Somehow?
P.P.P.P.S. I apologize in advance for what you’re going to have to read aloud. But do sound as grovelly as possible, won’t you? And use your best ghost impression, Lucius – Hamlet’s father, and all!
~Enclosure: One letter to Mr. Edward Teach, to wit~
Dearest Edward-
Can we please talk? Please? If only you would see me. If only you would accept my apology. We could be as we were. As we were meant to be.
What do you say?
Yours in perpetuity,
Stede Bonnet
25 December, 1717
(Happy Christmas to me and my goddamn marmalade, I guess)
Stede-
Well that went…some kind of way. Jesus, could you come up with an idea – any single, solitary idea – that doesn’t involve someone almost dying?
I did exactly what you suggested: I “haunted” him. Read him your letter to him through the wall. And then I listened to him get the drunkest I’ve ever heard another human get. I’m not fucking kidding. I’m pretty sure he threw up a kidney. Dizzy Izzy was losing his shit, and I would have said Blackbeard was in a full-on coma if he didn’t groan a little when Jim stabbed him. (Nothing too deep – they found a butter knife in the galley. Ivan managed to wrench it away from them afterward. Barely.)
Blackbeard finally woke up sometime last night and slurred, “Happy Christmas, ghost.” Then he asked me to “commune with that fickle bastard” on his behalf.
So, without further ado, the words of the great Blackbeard to one Gentleman Pirate:
Fuck off.
I asked him to elaborate, to which he replied:
Fuck off, Stede, you fickle asshole.
Quite lovely. Very festive.
Aaaaaaaaand now he’s drunk again.
Seriously, boss, you’ve got to come up with something else. I’m running out of jam and the entire world is going to run out of rum, at the rate he’s going.
I’m warning you, The Decameron is up next in the scratch-paper pile if you don’t figure this out soon.
Lucius
4 January, 1718
Lucius-
Oh dear, this is less than ideal, isn’t it? Try the enclosed letter on for size – much more confessional, I think. A bit more painful to write, of course, but all true things are, aren’t they?
Also, attached for you is a pound of hardtack from Nassau, which is apparently about to become a bit of mess, frankly, so we’ll be shoving off. Included, too, is a…drawing, I suppose. From Black Pete. It’s…lovely, from a certain angle. Not sure how two bodies could work like that, but I find it very informative, nonetheless.
And please do provide your sailing coordinates, when you can. Our Royal James is a fine enough vessel, but we’re all terribly homesick.
I miss you, and Jim and Frenchie. I miss my ship.
I miss him.
Sincerely,
Stede Bonnet
~Enclosure: One letter to Mr. Edward Teach, to wit~
Edward. My lovely, dear Edward-
I haven’t used the word “sorry” yet, have I? Not even once. I’ve gone through all my copies of our correspondence, and I can’t find one single instance of the word “sorry.”
How terrible of me. How unforgivable. Because that is what I am: sorry.
Sorry for what I did. Sorry for what I didn’t do. A sorry excuse of a friend.
Therefore: I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry, Ed.
I’m so sorry, and if you’d just let me, I could at least explain that you are not at fault – never – for any fear or weakness I may have expressed. Chauncey Badminton, perhaps, bears some blame. But most of it is on me, Ed. On my own weakness and mistakes. My own cowardice and fear of how I felt.
Still feel. About you.
So won’t you please give me chance to find you? To stop chasing you all over the damned Caribbean? Stop sending seagulls and bloody ghosts to tell you what I should have told you myself in person?
That I’m sorry.
That I’m yours.
Can I see you, dearest? Please?
Yours in perpetuity,
Stede Bonnet
24 January, 1718
Stede-
That letter was…I don’t even fucking know?
I mean, I definitely read it to him. And he definitely yelled for a while afterward. And he definitely got smashing drunk again. But he didn’t nearly die this time, which I suppose is progress. Instead, he sort of – oh, God – cried about it? With lots of “fuck you,” and chunking a knife repeatedly into the wall, and whispering your name.
So, a bit of a wash?
Izzy’s been running the ship for the most part over the past month. To literally no one’s surprise, it looks like we’re headed toward yet another mutiny. We just keep raiding shitty merchant ships, and then everyone sulks when Blackbeard can’t be arsed to congratulate them or even inspect the loot. And Izzy doesn’t really do the whole “inspiring his personnel” thing.
Jim and Frenchie finally know I’m here, and they’re both doing what they can to sneak me food, try and pinpoint our coordinates, etc. That part’s been difficult, since Izzy basically sleeps with the sextant and Blackbeard is not, shall we say, inclined toward leadership at the moment.
I don’t think he’s fully sobered up since that Christmas letter, but it’s getting so that I don’t really need to hide in the passages anymore, when it’s just him around. I’m pretty sure he still thinks I’m a ghost? Or maybe he doesn’t even care at this point?
Whatever the case, he actually asked me to help him a few days ago. He wanted to see your letters and – get this – not burn them. He's even asked me to stay and start...I don't know? Talking it through? Processing his, like, love-hatred of you. It’s. Well, it’s a lot.
I’m not the best therapist at the moment, considering I still want to strangle him every now and then. But it’s kind of endearing, listening to him work through all his bullshit. You know, when I temporarily forget that he’s killed, like, so many people. Including me, almost.
Not that I want to give either of you credit, because you’re both objectively terrible. But I think maybe you might be getting through to him. That, or he’s drowned the murdery part of his brain with booze. Either way, perhaps you should strike while the iron is hot. Because CHRIST, hardtack is terrible. I actually miss Roach’s food.
I miss Pete.
Get your shit together, Stede Bonnet,
Lucius
7 February, 1718
Lucius-
God I
Fuck I just
I thought we caught a glimpse of you all. For just a moment, off the starboard side of the Royal James. Like a mirage on the horizon, vanished almost as soon as she appeared.
Give him the enclosed, please. Tell him
oh god I wish I was
I miss him so desperately, I could
He’s everything, how can I let him know he’s
I’ll find you. I’ll find all of you, I swear it.
Sincerely,
Stede
~Enclosure: To Ed.~
Edward.
I love you.
I should have said that, before. I should say that every day that I walk this earth, and every day after that, if an afterlife exists.
11 February, 1718
Stede-
I think our ships are very, very close. I don’t have the exact coordinates because of Izzy FUCKING Hands, but I’m pretty sure we saw your ship, too. So we’ve got to be close. Hurry, Stede, seriously. Because…well, it’s not bad, per se. But, well, um:
FUCK YOU, STEDE
That’s, um. That’s from Ed. That was written by Ed.
Sweet, right? (That’s not actually sarcasm.)
He wants to talk to you, Stede. So that he can tell you to fuck off, sure. But. Knowing what I know about the two of you, this…this is a good sign, yeah? So let’s get a move on, shall we?
Lucius
14 February, 1718
Ed-
I think of you. Every day. Every night.
I should be more eloquent about it, I suppose. I keep trying to be eloquent with you. Keep trying to win you back with words. I keep failing. But I also keep thinking about you. Always.
My wound has healed so well. It’s strangely pretty, too. I like running my hands across it, if I’m being quite honest. And yet, I can’t sleep. Because you’re there, in my dreams. That’s good, I suppose. Even when my dreams are scary, and full of smoke and blood. Because then I get to see you again. And seeing you – well, that would be worth anything, wouldn’t it?
So when you want to see me, maybe you could…let me know, I suppose. Because it really should be up to you, shouldn’t it?
You gave, and I took, that day on the beach. And perhaps therein lies one of my many, many mistakes. Chauncey said I’d ruined you, but that isn’t really true, is it? Because I didn’t even give myself the chance to ruin you. To try, for fucks’ sake, to be good enough. For you. For my bloody self, even.
I should have been the one giving. I should have given you everything. You already had my heart, after all. Will always have it. I don’t think I doubted that, back then. But I definitely don’t doubt it now.
So…that’s it, I suppose.
I’ll think of you forever. I’ll wait for you forever.
I’ll love you forever, Ed. And that’s it.
Yours. Always yours,
Stede
17 February, 1718
Stede-
FUCK YOU.
But yours. Always yours,
Ed
P.S. 22.4018° N, 73.0641° W
26 February, 1718
Mr. C. Vane-
We’re writing to thank you for the lumber you graciously provided so that we could repair our damaged railings. In payment of this debt, we’re sending over a bit of ambergris we looted yesterday from a Dutch sloop, just off the coast of Mayaguana.
Also, we’re ever so grateful for the bits of cotton your crew liberated from “the murderous English bastards,” as per our boatswain, Mr. N. Buttons. The cotton made quite handy earplugs, given the…um…noises from the captains’ quarters, as of late.
We look forward to our crews avoiding each other in the future, and mutually avoiding that whole fiasco going on right now in Nassau.
Many happy returns,
Lucius Spriggs
Scribe of the Newly-Christened Adventure
c/o: Co-Captains E. Teach and S. Bonnet
14 April, 1718
Ed-
I’m tucking this note into your sleeping hand, open so invitingly on your pillow – one of our pillows, I suppose.
You smell like tobacco, and clove oil, and me. Your skin is warm and tempting in the sunlight, and I could stay all day like this, just like this, curled up around each other until Judgment Day. I have done so, despite much grumbling above decks. And I very much intend to do it again.
But I also have it on good authority that a merchant vessel carrying some lovely madeira, and maybe even some new silk, is passing our fleet soon.
Join me, when you wake? For perhaps yet another kind of adventure?
Yours. Always yours,
Stede